


Touch Me Fall

by Flywoman



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, F/F, Post-Infarction, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A study in strength and fragility, set post-infarction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Me Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [petitecuriosity](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=petitecuriosity).



> Written for [](http://petitecuriosity.livejournal.com/profile)[**petitecuriosity**](http://petitecuriosity.livejournal.com/) , who pointed out that there aren't many fics out there for this pairing. Also, belated thanks to my beta, [](http://jezziejay.livejournal.com/profile)[**jezziejay**](http://jezziejay.livejournal.com/) .

“I can’t stand it anymore,” Stacy sighs, lighting another cigarette with tight, brittle movements, the deep red remnants of her cherry pie strewn over her plate like a battlefield. “I knew that he’d be in pain. I knew that he’d be pissed. But he’s… God, Lisa, it’s unrelenting. He’s either shouting at me or sulking, and there’s absolutely nothing in between.”

“Well, you know Greg,” Lisa responds, dry yet sympathetic, “he’s never really been one for the middle ground.”

“So I’ve discovered.” Stacy drains her glass of wine – the third? Fourth? Lisa’s lost count – and pours herself another from their second bottle, lifting the glass to swirl its contents appraisingly against the light before taking a deep swallow.

“Lisa, I’m starting to think that he’s going nuts. He’s stuck home by himself day after day while I’m at work, with nothing to think about except how much his goddamn leg hurts and new ways to take it out on me when I get back. He threw his shoes at my head last night. His _shoes_.” Her laugh holds little humor. She blows smoke over her shoulder and then fixes on Lisa’s face with those bitter black coffee eyes. “He needs something to _do_.”

“I can see that,” Lisa says slowly, wondering what’s about to come at her, and suspecting that she won’t be able to swerve to avoid it. “But what do you think I-“

“You could give him a job,” Stacy points out with the directness for which she is justly famed, and which is only ever enhanced by the alcohol she consumes.

Lisa tries hard not to roll her eyes. “By all accounts, Greg was a miserable son of a bitch to work with even before the infarction. He’d been fired _four times_ before he came here, did you know that? And he hasn’t exactly inspired a fan club in Princeton. Any department head I assigned him to now would resign in protest.”

The lawyer leans forward. “Make him head of his own department.”

Now Lisa is forced to laugh in her friend’s face. “That doesn’t _solve_ the problem, it just turns it upside down. You want me to give him free rein to torture peons who don’t have the power to fight back?”

Stacy shakes her head stubbornly. “You might be surprised. He’s _good_ , Lisa. He’s really good. Fellows would jump at the chance to train under him. And med students are all masochists anyway. They’ll hardly notice if they’re being abused a bit more than usual. And he’ll put Princeton-Plainsboro on the map, if you let him.”

Lisa sighs and pushes her half-full glass away. “I’ll think about it. That’s all I can promise right now.” Stacy looks so relieved that for a moment she wonders idly whether there isn’t something else going on here than a desire to distract House, keep him occupied, give him a reason to get up in the morning. But she dismisses this unworthy thought. House and Stacy have been together for five years. She isn’t going to leave him now, especially not like this.

Still looking a little belligerent, Stacy drains her last glass and then twirls it forlornly in her fingers. It slips away from her and tips over; Lisa’s hand shoots out automatically to cushion it before it can hit the table and crack.

“Oops.” Stacy folds her fingers around Lisa’s where they cradle the empty glass. “Good catch.” They are warm and strong, but none too steady.

Lisa gently slides her hand out of Stacy’s grasp to signal to their waiter for the check. “I can’t let you drive home like this. Let me give you a ride.”

Stacy suddenly looks straight at her, serious if far from sober. “Can I crash at your place tonight?”

“You know you’re always welcome. But what about-“

“I’ll call James, tell him to stay the night.” Stacy is already fumbling in her handbag for her phone.

Lisa is surprised. “Would he do that?”

“Are you kidding? He’s always offering to give me a break. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to spend more time with Greg, make sure he’s eating properly…” Stacy rolls her eyes in self-deprecation; they both know that domestic skills are not her forte. “Just give me a second.” She stubs out her cigarette and slides off her stool, then walks outside, wobbling just a little.

When she returns, she is wearing a rueful smile. “That man has the patient of a saint. Granted, so must his wife, but I’m beyond caring about that at this point. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who can handle Greg when he’s being impossible.”

***

They are quiet in the car, each lost in her own thoughts, and if Stacy leans on Lisa a little coming up the steps to the house to keep from stumbling, neither of them draws attention to that fact.

The house is dark, still echoing faintly with unfulfilled potential, Lisa having been too busy since the purchase to furnish it properly. Before she can get the inside light, Stacy bumps into her back with a tipsy chuckle. Lisa turns around with a smart-ass observation that dies on her lips as the other woman leans forward and kisses her.

It begins tentatively but soon deepens into something just as soft but more sure. Lisa is too startled to step back at first, and by the time it occurs to her as an option, she has closed her eyes and leaned into it, tilting her head up, opening her mouth, tasting the peppery tang of the Zin on Stacy’s tongue.

Then her fingers find the light switch, and suddenly everything is illuminated. Stacy freezes and pulls away, looking equal parts aroused and embarrassed.

“Sorry – that was one glass too many, I guess. It’s just been so long since-“ Stacy bites her lip, and Lisa puts a reassuring hand on her arm. She knows the look, having surprised it on her own face in many a mirror lately: that of a woman who is starving through her skin.

To all outward appearances, Stacy has been a tower of strength this past seven months. Only Lisa has seen the surreptitious cigarettes, and even then only as the occasional butt overlooked on the hospital roof, until tonight. And Lisa understands the strain of always having to be the bitch in charge at work, giving no quarter, hiding the barest hint of vulnerability, even while your world at home is crumbling around you.

She still isn’t sure that she will be able to grant Stacy’s request on House’s behalf, but this, at least, is something she can do.

So she steps forward, reaching up a little, and enfolds Stacy’s taut frame in her arms. The body pressed against hers is rigid with surprise at first, but soon relaxes into naked need, and if Lisa hears a soft, stifled sob, she tactfully ignores it. She closes her eyes again, feeling Stacy’s arms wrapping urgently around her own back, the sharp point of her chin being tucked behind her bare shoulder. Lisa drinks so little these days that the half glass of wine is a warm glow in her belly, spreading outward to the nerve endings in her skin. Her nipples tingle, hardening against the other woman’s breasts, as they clutch at each other, trying to catch their breaths.

Wordlessly Lisa backs towards the bedroom, peeling herself away out of Stacy’s embrace but then leading her haltingly along by the hand.

They undress in the dark, in unspoken acknowledgment of the mutual agreement that _they_ are not doing this, two longtime friends with a third one, absent but inescapable, between them. Stacy’s movements are slow and clumsy with drink, but she slides her hands firmly along Lisa’s back, around her buttocks, down the back of her thighs. They lie down together, twining around each other’s limbs, exploring each other’s unfamiliar bodies with lips and tongues and fingertips.

Lisa has no idea how much time has passed when she slips her hand between Stacy’s thighs, parting the dense, damp curls. Stacy turns her head and fastens her mouth on Lisa’s throat with a moan as she pushes her pelvis up out of the mattress, trying to match the rhythm of the strokes. She gropes blindly for Lisa’s other hand and squeezes, in gratitude or desperation, she isn’t quite sure which.

At last Stacy comes with a long, low, helpless groan of _“Greg,”_ and Lisa grips her fingers hard and wonders whether this night has saved the relationship from shattering or finally broken it to bits.

 


End file.
